To whomsoever should find these words,

I set quill to page not in triumph, but in quiet lament, for this realm suffereth no lasting works. I did awaken upon its barren shore with naught to my name, and with earnest toil did raise a humble shelter—persuading myself it might endure. Yet ere long, it was unmade, not in fury but in silence, as though it had never been.

Oft is one’s labor here rendered void in absence, leaving no trace nor comfort. Such erasure weigheth heavily upon the spirit, for it revealeth all effort to be fleeting and uncertain.

The souls that wander this place offer no fellowship. They come as tempests—swift, unkind, and gone again—so that trust becometh a peril rather than a virtue.

Thus persisteth a sorrowful cycle: to strive, to lose, to begin again, each time with less conviction than before.

I remain, though wearied,
Your humble and disenchanted servant.